


would hell be something better

by procrastinatingbookworm



Series: even if heaven doesn't take us we tried [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arguing, Breakfast, Car Accidents, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Character Death, Crying, Depression, Developing Friendships, Dissociation, Feelings, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Human Crowley (Supernatural), Mental Breakdown, Other, Recovery, Sam Winchester Dies, Wakes & Funerals, the love between people that have nothing left
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 01:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18272759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: Sam dies closing the gates of Hell.Crowley and Castiel are human. Dean is shattered.They can't put themselves back together; their foundations crumbled when Sam died and the angels fell.Together, they build anew.





	would hell be something better

***** SAM *****

 

Sam glanced down at the book.

He’d long since committed the words to memory, but the shape of them reassured him.

This wasn’t hope or possibility, a shot in the dark that might not kill even if it hit. This was real, _certain._

Sam could taste blood, coppery and thick in his throat.

He gave the book one last stare and turned around.

“‘m not a monster,” Crowley slurred, his eyes half-lidded and red with tears. Sam glanced up at him, taking a measured step forward.

“I know,” Sam murmured, cutting his palm in one smooth motion. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, hanc animam redintegra... lustra._ ”

He lifted his hand toward Crowley’s mouth. His arms had started to glow again, lit from within, the burning ache of it spreading through his veins, toward his heart.

The doors of the church burst open, and Dean stumbled in, gasping, less out of breath and more out of options, reaching out desperately. “Sammy, stop!”

Sam looked at him, curling his bloody hand into a fist. Crowley had started to cry softly, broken and lost.

“Easy there, okay? Just take it easy,” Dean said, hands up and palms out like he was approaching a wounded animal. “We got a slight change of plan.”

“Don’t,” Sam shook his head. “Dean, I have to do this.”

“No you don’t,” Dean begged. “Metatron lied. You finish this trial, you’re dead.”

“So?” Sam asked.

“ _So?_ ” Dean parroted back, halfway between furious and distraught. “Sam, Sammy, please. Just stop, we’ll figure this out—”

“We’re close, Dean. Look at him.” He gestured at Crowley, slumped in the chair. “We’re so close.”

Dean took another step forward, reaching out. “I can’t let you die.”

“You don’t _want_ to let me die,” Sam shook his head. “There’s a difference.” He sighed. “Look, Dean, one of us was going to die eventually, and we both know it had to be me.”

“Sam, you’re the one who sees a way out of this—”

“I see a way out of this for _you._ Remember… remember that thing, with the Trickster, and the Tuesdays?”

Dean nodded, paralyzed.

“When you died on Wednesday, when it was supposed to be over, and didn’t come back? I went dark, Dean. Really dark. I was a machine. A _monster._ That’s why I didn’t look for you when you went to Purgatory. Because if I started I was never going to come back from that. I would never be a person again, just a… a shell with a mission. Like dad.”

“Sam, losing you…” Dean grit his teeth. “It would kill me.”

Sam shook his head. “No it won’t. It won’t kill you, because you won’t let it, Dean. You have to keep fighting.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Tough!” Sam shouted, pressing his palm against Crowley’s mouth. “Kah-nuh-ahm-dahr.”

“Sammy, no!” Dean shouted, but it was too late.

The orange light grew to a blinding gold, burning white-hot, and Sam screamed. He heard Dean screaming too, and Crowley.

Briefly, everything but pain and sound darkened into a blur. He could still hear Dean’s voice, desperate, helpless repetitions of his name, shaking fingers on Sam’s throat, a relieved sob when his pulse fluttered.

Crowley, almost forgotten, had started to sob, crying like a child in pain.

“Stay with me,” Dean was saying, dragging Sam out of the church, into the rain. “C’mon, Sammy. Stay with me.”

The world shaded back into focus.

“Dean? ‘m sorry.”

Dean clutched at him. Sam couldn’t see his face, but he knew from the way that he was being held that Dean was crying. “Shh. No. Don’t be sorry, Sammy. Nothing to be sorry for. Just stay with me. Cas? _Cas?_ ” Dean shouted for the angel, his last desperate hope. “Cas, where are you? I need help!”

Sam’s head fell back, until he could see the sky. It looked like the stars were falling. Rain fell onto his face, cool against the heat burning under his skin, consuming him. “Wh’s happening?”

Dean looked up too, his arms still wrapped around Sam, cradling him to his chest. Sam felt like a child again, for a moment, tucked safely in his brother’s arms, their backs pressed against the Impala, waiting for their father to bring them in from the cold.

“The angels,” Dean murmured, helpless with grief but still awed at the spectacle.  “They’re falling.”

The understanding passed between them, unspoken, without even a glance. Whatever had happened in Heaven, no angels, not even Castiel, could come to help them.

“You gotta keep fighting,” Sam insisted, clutching at Dean’s jacket. “Whatever’s going on with th’... with the angels, you have t’ keep fighting.”

“ _Cas!_ ” Dean shouted, _screamed,_ his head thrown back in supplication. “Cas, please! Please, you have to help me! Cas!”

“Don’t give up,” Sam begged. “You’ll figure it out, Dean.”

“Sammy,” Dean’s head dropped until his chin brushed his chest, his voice breaking into pieces. “Sammy, I’m gonna get you out—wherever you end up, I’m gonna get you out.”

Sam wanted to tell him not to, but the world was already going dark.

 

***** CROWLEY *****

 

By the time Crowley had used one of his cufflinks to pick the lock of the collar and cuffs, by the time he had stepped effortlessly over the Devil’s Trap, by the time he had composed himself enough to even stand up, it was all over.

The rain had turned to a downpour, and the last of the angels were burning out in the sky.

Dean cradled his brother’s body and wept.

Compassion tore through Crowley’s chest, the ache of it almost sending him to his knees. Pain stabbed through his stomach, and he remembered his mother, gripping him by the shoulder.

 _When your mind grieves,_ she had told him, holding him tight enough to hurt worse than the twist of agony in his gut. _The pain has to go somewhere, so it coils up there_ —she had jabbed him in the stomach with her free hand, her nails biting into his skin— _and makes you weak._

“Come along, Squirrel,” Crowley said, his voice thick and broken. “Let’s get him out of the rain.”

Not ‘ _let’s_ get out of the rain’, not ‘let’s get _you_ out of the rain’. Dean would stay there until he was dead too, if he was left to it. But for his brother’s sake, he’d act.

Just as Crowley expected, act he did. Slowly and hopelessly, bearing the weight of his grief and the weight of his brother at once, but Dean lifted himself from the mud, dragging Sam up with him.

Crowley wrapped his arms around himself and watched through the pouring rain and the blur of tears. Dean settled his brother’s body into the backseat.

Instead of walking around the rain-drenched car to the driver’s side, though, Dean looked at Crowley. “Can you drive?”

Crowley blinked at him. “What?”

“Can you drive?” Dean repeated.

“I…” Crowley nodded, speechless. “I thought you would… leave me here.”

“If you were a demon, you’d be trapped in Hell right now,” Dean shrugged. “I think I’ll crash if I try to drive right now.”

Overwhelmed, somewhere between gratitude and the agony of grief, Crowley nodded again. “Manual, I assume?”

“What kind of barbarian do you take me for?” Dean shot back, and it caught both of them by surprise.

Camaraderie. Huh.

“Get in the car, Squirrel,” Crowley muttered, swiping at his eyes.

Dean gave him directions in a dull voice, and Crowley drove obediently, watering eyes fixed on the road.

Crowley was moderately surprised to see the bunker. “Have your own Batcave, hm?”

The attempt at humor fell flat, but it got a reaction out of Dean. “Turn into that gap in the trees. There’s a place to park back there.”

Crowley obeyed without thinking. Turning the corner, his arms suddenly went slack.

“Jesus, Crowley!” Dean shouted, reaching over and grabbing the wheel.

Crowley folded his arms over his head and howled.

The front of the Impala crunched against the trees. Crowley’s head hit the steering wheel.

 

***** DEAN *****

 

Dean must have backed the Impala out of the trees. He must have dragged Crowley’s prone form out of the driver’s seat and into the bunker. He must have carried Sam’s body inside, must have cleaned and re-dressed him, wrapped him in a clean white cloth and tied it in place with rope.

He must have stripped Crowley of his soaked jacket and ruined shoes. He must have draped a blanket over the once-king’s shivering form.

He must have gotten two beers out of the fridge, must have set one on the counter and cut his thumb open trying to open one of them.

Must have dropped it, must have sunk to his knees when the bottle shattered with a horrible noise that sent Crowley bolting awake with a scream.

He must have, because the next thing he remembered clearly after the Impala hit the trees behind the bunker was Crowley shaking his shoulders.

“Squirrel,” he was saying, between teeth-chattering shivers. “Come on. Up off the floor.”

Dean dragged himself upright, leaning on Crowley’s forearms, too lost in grief to be ashamed that he had to put his weight on a disgraced demon to even stand up.

“I know it hurts,” Crowley told him. “But you can’t let it kill you. Otherwise there’s no point.”

Dean shuddered, knees buckling. “I should kill _you._ ”

Crowley shrugged, holding Dean up as if they weren’t enemies, as if they hadn’t ruined each other’s lives as a hobby. “Probably. I deserve it.”

For a moment, Dean considered it. He had a gun stuffed in the back of his jeans, Ruby’s knife and an angel blade in the inside pocket of his jacket. There was the second beer bottle too. Smash the end against the counter, cut Crowley’s throat.

It wouldn’t bring Sam back, but it sure as hell would make Dean feel better.

Then Kevin spoke up, peering around the corner, holding the angel tablet like a weapon. “Guys? What happened? Where’s Sam? What’s Crowley doing here?”

“The gates of Hell are closed,” Crowley answered, practically cradling Dean in an effort to keep him on his feet. “Sam’s dead. I’m cured, fully human.”

Kevin hesitated, knuckles white on the angel tablet. He glanced at Dean.

“He’s telling the truth,” Dean’s voice broke. “Sam’s gone.”

“You let Crowley live?” Kevin demanded.

“Well, you and your trials ruined my life.” Crowley shrugged, shifting his grip on Dean slightly. “Squirrel, please, I’m not as strong as I was.”

Dean flushed, grabbing the edge of the counter and pushing himself to his feet. Kevin and Crowley were both staring at him expectantly. He shook his head.

“Let’s just… get some rest. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

Kevin sucked in a breath, and Dean realized what he’d said.

_We’ll figure it out._

He could just _hear_ Sam’s voice.

_You’ll figure it out, Dean._

“Dean—” someone said, maybe Kevin, maybe Crowley, but not Sam.

Not Sam. Sam was gone.

Sam was gone.

 

***** KEVIN *****

 

Kevin didn’t trust Crowley.

The man kneeling on the kitchen floor was definitely Crowley. His face was the same, even crumpled and reddened with grief. He was wearing the same black three-piece suit under the plaid blanket that Kevin had gotten used to seeing on the couch.

There was that surety to him, too. That was part of what made him _Crowley._ Not necessarily a sense of entitlement, just a confidence. Come Hell or high water, Crowley would persist, and likely come out on top.

So it was definitely Crowley, and Kevin didn’t trust him.

But Crowley was holding Dean in his arms, trying to rouse him, not caring about the spilled beer soaking into his dress pants or the broken glass.

He bared his throat without a word when Kevin drew a knife on him.

“You can kill me if you want,” Crowley murmured. “You’d be doing me a favor. But Dean won’t put himself back together on his own, and forgive me for assuming, but I don’t think you’re up for coaxing a grief-stricken shell of a hunter who’s just failed at his life’s purpose back to relative functionality.”

“Who are you and where’s Crowley?” Kevin demanded.

“I am Crowley,” he answered, maddeningly calm. “I’m cured. Human now.”

With that, he directed his attention back to Dean.

Dean wasn’t unconscious; his eyes were open, glossy with tears, and his mouth moved slightly as if he was trying to speak, but he wasn’t _there._

Kevin had seen both Dean and Sam space out like that before, leaning against the wall or sinking to the ground, caught up in memories more terrible than Kevin could begin to comprehend.

 _I’ve been tortured,_ he’d said to Dean once, annoyed at being blown off.

 _For thirty years? In Hell?_ Dean had answered. _And spent a decade after that_ doing _the torturing, because you were so broken you couldn’t fathom another day on the rack?_

Kevin had stopped asking after that.

Hesitantly, he knelt down beside Crowley. “What can we do?”

Crowley grasped one of Dean’s hands. There was a cut on his thumb, bleeding sluggishly. Crowley hesitated, then pressed down on it, hard, digging his nail into the cut.

Kevin cried out, reaching for his knife, but Dean surged awake, gasping.

Crowley searched Dean’s pockets and pulled out a bandana, wrapping it around the cut and squeezing. “There we are, Squirrel. Back with us?”

Dean made an awful sound, choked and high-pitched, not quite a sob.

Crowley laughed, and Kevin almost stabbed him, but the sound was mirthless and broken. “Yes, that’s the current consensus.”

Dean keened again, and Kevin squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered, feeling the world spin around him.

 

***** CROWLEY *****

 

Crowley was reminded, uncomfortably, of being a father.

He lifted Dean, bodily, bending his knees and shifting his feet. He wasn’t used to being weak, wasn’t used to being without the ability to snap his fingers and have things go his way.

Still, he tried. He carried Dean to the bedroom that looked like his—the one with weapons on the walls and a pair of headphones on the bedside table and a Metallica t-shirt abandoned on the bed.

Crowley remembered carrying Gavin to bed. The damage had been his fault, then. He’d been a terrible father.

Furious at himself, Crowley settled Dean onto the bed, stripping off his rain-soaked outer layers and tucking him under the covers.

It was the least he could do, to start to make up for it all.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, tossing the muddy clothes into the pile that had gathered in the corner. “Really, I am. For everything.”

Death would be a mercy.

There were two blades in Dean’s jacket, clinking against each other in the inside pocket on the left. The demon-killing knife, ornate and serrated, and the angel blade.

There was a silver knife in the other pocket, and a bottle of holy water.

Crowley took a sip of it. It was metallic and warm, but it didn’t burn, didn’t blister or even sting.

Crowley put the cap back on the flask and set it down on the nightstand.

He didn’t like having a conscience. It would be easy to just off himself or leave, if thrice-damned _empathy_ wasn’t stabbing him in the stomach every time he looked at Dean or Kevin.

Damn them both, and Sam too. Damn damn _damn._

“Damn it,” Crowley said aloud, his voice breaking. “Damn bloody Winchesters. _Fuck!_ ”

“That’s not going to help,” Kevin said, peering around the door. He was a waif of a thing, the poor prophet.

“I know,” Crowley said, so utterly miserable that he could barely breathe. “But it makes me feel better.”

“Don’t wake Dean up.” Kevin held the door of Dean’s bedroom open. “He doesn’t sleep enough as is.”

Crowley left the room, shutting the door behind him, and almost collapsed, dizzy. He yelped, catching himself on the wall.

Kevin seemed to fold inward at the noise, and Crowley hated himself so fiercely that his head spun all the more.

“You’re probably dehydrated,” the prophet said, after a moment of deliberation. “Get some water from the fridge.”

Bottled water tasted sweet, Crowley realized. He wasn’t sure how he’d forgotten.

While Dean slept, he made more discoveries. He explored the bunker, with its extensive library and walls heaving with weapons, air molasses-thick with warding.

Knowing his surroundings—especially finding the dungeon hidden behind the bookshelf—did a lot to calm him down. Fear, it turned out, especially the paranoia of unfamiliarity, hurt in the same way grief did, aching in the center of his chest, and addressing one did nothing for the other, but it did _something_ for the pain.

Back in the main room, halfway through sorting a pile of unshelved books, Crowley found himself crying for probably the dozenth time in that day alone, and he couldn’t for the _life_ of him understand why.

“Is being human always this pathetic?” he muttered, not expecting a response, and nearly leapt out of his skin when Dean spoke up behind him.

“Sometimes.”

Crowley winced. Dean’s voice was thick and raw, scratchy and catching in his throat. His eyes were swollen, the bags under them such a deep color that it looked like he’d been punched.

“Wonderful,” Crowley snarked, trying to cover up his panic and his compassion both. “I’d like to get off.”

Dean seemed to take the question seriously. “Just annoy Kevin for a bit, he’ll probably kill you.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Crowley opened his mouth to respond and suddenly felt unspeakably guilty. This was how Sam and Dean spoke to each other; light-hearted, obnoxiously unsubtle, peppered with references to shared history.

Dean seemed to notice it too, but he forced a smile. “Have you eaten yet? I’ll make something.”

Crowley shook his head, speechless at the simple kindness of it.

Dean turned and left the room, pausing in the doorway of the kitchen for a moment. “Hey, Crowley?”

“What?”

“Wipe your nose.”

 

***** DEAN *****

 

Breakfast (frozen waffles topped with fried eggs) went over well with Crowley.

It didn’t come back up so well, but… that was humanity, Dean supposed.

“Slow down next time,” he suggested, when Crowley emerged from the bathroom, face pale and mouth pinched in disgust.

“Where’s your liquor?” Crowley snapped, pushing past him.

When Dean turned around, Kevin was looking at him, wide-eyed, from the door of his room.

“We should, um,” Kevin began. He twitched, halfway between a fidget and a flinch. “We should have a funeral. For Sam.”

Dean shook his head, suddenly mute at the sound of his brother’s name. Hunter’s funerals required burning, so their spirit wouldn’t stay, turning into a restless ghost that would someday need to be hunted.

Sam hadn’t burned Dean when he had died, and Dean had come back, raised from Hell by Cas, returned to his body.

Bobby had stayed, even when they’d burned his body, but they’d been forced to let go of him, too.

Which was the worse fate? Letting go of Sam completely, or risking him becoming something that neither of them would recognize?

“Dean?” Kevin asked, his voice low. Dean flinched and broke, barely catching himself with his hands before his knees hit the floor.

Through a haze, Dean heard footsteps from behind him.

A startled “Squirrel?” from Crowley. Then “hold this,” and then “shut up!” when Kevin started to speak.

“Squirrel. Squirrel. Look at me, darling.”

Crowley’s accent had slipped slightly, but his voice was still soothing. Dean was suddenly furious with him, how _dare_ he be so comforting, after everything he’d done.

Dean reached for his knife.

“Oh, don’t do that.” Crowley said, infuriatingly patronizing, sounding like John but worse, like he wasn’t just giving orders, like he actually _cared_ . “Come here _._ ”

Without warning, Crowley’s soft hands settled on Dean’s shoulders. Dean flinched away, but Crowley held him tighter, steadying. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and growled.

“You really need to plan these little episodes better,” Crowley admonished, wrapping his arms around Dean’s middle and dragging him back against his chest. “The hallway isn’t too comfortable.”

Dean fought, instinctively, but Crowley pinned his arms to his sides and held him there.

“Shh,” Crowley soothed, and Dean hated him so much he wanted to scream, but one soft hand slipped over his mouth and kept him quiet. “Shh.”

Kevin must have shared some kind of silent communication with Crowley, because he turned and walked away without a word.

Dean bit down on Crowley’s finger until he tasted blood. Crowley held up impressively, but he eventually yelped and let go, cursing.

“I hate you,” Dean gasped. He meant to shout, or scream, but his voice broke.

“Yes,” Crowley answered. “Yes, I know.”

Dean fought against his grip, swallowing hard. “I hate you,” he repeated, forcing down a sob.

Crowley rested his forehead on Dean’s shoulder, sighing softly. “For someone who suffers so much, you’re not very good at this.”

Dean fought him, clinging to his fury. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Stop _fighting_ ,” Crowley answered, calmly.

Dean hated him. “I can’t.”

“Why, because your brother told you not to?”

Dean couldn’t breathe.

“He didn’t mean fight yourself.”

“I’m fighting you,” Dean shot back, furious only because it was the only thing keeping him together.

Crowley let him go.

Dean didn’t move.

“See?”

He couldn’t move.

“Stop fighting.”

Dean stopped.

 

***** KEVIN *****

 

Crowley’s raised eyebrows may not have actually meant _get out of here_ , but they could have been, so Kevin did.

All but fleeing, Kevin sat down heavily at the table, resting his fingertips on the angel tablet. Images flashed through his head, but he had to focus to turn them into words.

He picked up a pen and started to write, trying to drown out the sounds of grief with the migraine-buzz of the Word of God.

Dean’s ragged crying turned into wordless howls. Kevin flinched, running his palm over the grooves of the words. His fingers landed on one of Metatron’s ‘asides’. Kevin was starting to hate the Scribe of God. Stuck-up, sarcastic bastard.

Dean started to sob, raw and ugly. Kevin doodled on his notepad, curved symbols that were probably Enochian. Fuck you, Metatron.

Under the blur of the tablet and Dean’s cries, Kevin could hear Crowley’s voice, soothing and repetitive. Fuck you too, Crowley.

Kevin rested his forehead on the table and tried to breathe steadily.

“I miss my mom,” he told the empty room. “I want to go home.”

No one answered.

“I want to go home.”

Silence.

“I _said_ , I want—”

“Oh, please.”

Kevin yelped. He hadn’t even heard Crowley approach.

“This is the only home you have left. And your mom is… alive.”

Kevin whirled around, heart crawling into his throat. “You told me she was dead.”

Crowley looked uncomfortable. “She’s imprisoned, not dead.”

“What?! Take me to her!”

“Whoa, cowboy. I’m without power, you’re a twink prophet, and the one surviving hunter is curled up in his room having the mother of all breakdowns.”

Kevin glared at him.

“I’ll do my best.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Wait, you left Dean alone?”

Crowley shrugged. His eyes were red, but not crossroad-demon red. Just red, like he’d been crying. “He asked for some privacy after he finished screaming.”

“Is he…” Kevin asked.

“No. I doubt he’ll ever be. But I don’t think he’s a danger to himself, so I left him alone.”

Kevin hadn’t even thought of that. His head spun. “Why…”

“Why what?”

“Why are you still here?”

Crowley shrugged one shoulder and swallowed hard. “I have nowhere else to go, and, I suppose… I know quite a bit about… grief.”

“From being King of Hell?”

Crowley laughed that joyless, painful laugh. “Physical torture works on some people, but everyone has something that breaks them emotionally, and it’s all over after that.”

“How’d they break you?”

Crowley’s expression closed off. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and breathed like it hurt.

Kevin almost regretted asking, until Crowley bared his teeth.

“They didn’t.”

 

***** DEAN *****

 

Dean woke up strangely refreshed.

Aside from the pounding headache and the sensation that his internal organs had been scooped out of his chest, not to mention the fact that Sam was dead, and Dean had failed the only thing that had ever mattered.

Depressed beyond fucking _belief,_ Dean did the only thing he could think to do.

He got out of bed.

He’d never had the luxury of wallowing, and he didn’t plan on starting now. Get up, take a shower, shave, get dressed. Keep a gun and Ruby’s knife and an angel blade on hand.

(Force himself not to fall to his knees or drive the blade through his throat or scream himself hoarse.)

Kevin was toasting frozen waffles when Dean walked into the kitchen.

“Dude,” he said, the subdued kind of chipper that came with the denial stage of grief. “Frozen waffles. The _best._ ”

“Those words made sense,” Dean answered, ruffling Kevin’s hair as he passed him. “Not sure about the sentence as a whole, but I get the gist.”

Kevin almost laughed. The sound didn’t quite make it out, but the effort was there.

Dean waited until they’d both eaten before he spoke.

“Where’s Crowley? I haven’t seen him since he hauled my ass off the floor… yesterday afternoon? Son of a bitch, how long did I sleep?”

“Eighteen hours. I figured you needed it. And I don’t know. I haven’t seen him either.”

“For _eighteen hours?_ ”

Kevin paused. “Seventeen and a half. I pissed him off, I figured he went off to sulk. Then I got caught up working on the angel tablet and—”

Something about that struck Dean the wrong way. “You pissed him off? What did you say?”

“What, you care about him now?”

“We destroyed his entire life, and instead of killing us both, he’s been keeping me from crashing and burning, so yeah, I do kind of care what happens to the guy. So what did you argue about?”

“He said that my mom was still alive. Then something about helping you because he knew a lot about grief from ruling Hell. So I asked him how they broke _him_ in Hell.”

Dean raised his eyebrows slowly. “Kevin, that’s not something you _ask—_ ”

“I know, I know. I realized that after I said it. But he just said… they didn’t. Then walked off.”

Dean felt gears churning in the back of his head. It made the headache that much worse. “Did you happen to ask him to find-slash-retrieve your mom?”

Kevin figured it out. “Yes?”

“Stupid son of a bitch,” Dean growled, anger pulsing up in his throat as he dug his phone out of his pocket. “He’s going to get himself _killed_ —”

Dean scrolled through his contacts and called Crowley. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail.

“Crowley, whatever you’re doing, don’t be an idiot, call me back.”

Dean waited five agonizing minutes, then called again. Crowley didn’t pick up.

“Crowley, you son of a bitch, call me back.”

Five more minutes. Kevin wandered away.

“Crowley, don’t be an idiot. Call me back.”

Dean paced. He waited four minutes and thirty-four seconds and called again. Voicemail.

“Crowley, I can’t lose you too. Call me back.”

 

***** CROWLEY *****

 

Crowley trudged through the forest, regretting immensely that he hadn’t, for once, stopped to make a plan before heading off. What was he, some kind of Winchester?

Lacking powers of any kind, barely armed, he was quite possibly going to his death among the demons he used to have control over.

It all depended whether Abbadon had established herself again. She was the only one who knew of his condition, and the most likely to start rumors.

One one hand, the last time he’d seen her, she was smoking out of her burning vessel. On the other hand, she was as crafty and vicious a bitch as Crowley himself.

Crowley was out of breath by the time he reached the storage facility. He paused, cleaning the mud from his shoes and calming his breathing, wiping sweat from his brow.

He was very lucky he remembered how to be human.

Finally composed, he strode inside, flashed one of those winning but slightly sinister smiles at the demon slouched at the front desk, and hoped to god-or-whoever-gives-a-damn that he was still himself.

“Open Mrs. Tran’s door for me, will you? I have something in mind for her.”

The demon leered. It made Crowley feel sick.

“Finally. Can I watch?”

“Not this time.” Crowley could feel every muscle in his body tensing, defensive anger coiling up in his chest. “Follow me, though.”

It felt strange, to walk through this place without his powers, with the full expanse of feeling. Misery and fear trickled down the hallway like blood, and it was all Crowley’s fault.

The door to the storage-room-turned-cell slid open. Mrs. Tran cowered against the wall she was chained to, fearful and gasping.

Crowley’s heart caught in his throat. Slowly, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat.

Mrs. Tran screamed. The demon cackled.

Crowley turned around and slipped the angel blade between the the fifth and sixth ribs of his former employee.

There was more screaming. Unthinking, Crowley snapped his fingers.

Nothing happened. Of course it didn’t.

Crowley snatched the key ring from the demon’s belt and unlocked the cuffs. “Mrs. Tran, I’m very sorry, but I need you to trust me for five minutes while I get you out of here.”

She punched him in the face. Of course she did.

“Yes, I deserved that. You can hit me again, if you want to, but after I heroically rescue you from a situation I placed you in when I was a demon with no sense of compassion.”

“You’re not a demon anymore?”

Crowley tilted his head to show her the needle marks on his neck. “Fully cured.” He dug the bottle of holy water out of his pocket and drank from it. “See?”

She glared at him suspiciously, but let him unlock the cuffs. Crowley frog-marched her out of the facility, heart thudding in panic.

Crowley managed to keep his breath even until they got out into the woods, holding Mrs. Tran by the arm. He didn’t remember how many demons he had posted inside other than the one he had killed, but better safe than sorry (and dead).

As soon as the storage-facility-slash-prison was out of sight behind the trees, Crowley doubled over, wheezing.

“I didn’t know demons could be cured,” Mrs. Trans said quietly, waiting for Crowley to compose himself.

“Neither did I,” Crowley gasped, almost sobbing from the guilt and relief. “But here I am. I’m sorry, Mrs. Tran. Truly.”

She punched him in the face. Again. Crowley sat down hard and let her hit him. She tired herself out quickly, collapsing beside Crowley in the mud.

“That felt good.”

Crowley was inclined to agree with her, despite the blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

“Let’s get you back to your son, Mrs. Tran.”

 

***** KEVIN *****

 

Kevin perched on the kitchen counter, eating day-old Chinese takeout with a fork. He watched Dean pacing a hole in the floor of the bunker, clutching his phone in one hand and holding a gun in the other.

“Dean, drink some water before you freak out.”

“Bit late for that,” Dean wheezed, pushing his hair out of his face with the barrel of the gun. He whirled around, eyes wide and pupils like dinner plates. “Don’t you get yourself killed, Kev.”

“Dude, he’s not dead.”

“We don’t _know_ that.” Dean gasped, turning away again. His shoulders shook slightly.

Kevin took another bite of sub-par sweet and sour chicken. “Are you crying over the ex-King of Hell?”

“I’m panicking,” Dean answered, checking his phone again and wheezing out a breath. “Because I’ve already lost Sam, Cas is in the wind, and you’re going to bail as soon as you can, and if I’m alone here, I’m going to eat a bullet.”

“Geez.” Kevin said. “I’m not going to bail, Dean. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“The demons are gone. The angels are fallen and scattered. You can be done, Kevin. If your mom is alive, you _will_ leave.”

Kevin couldn’t argue with that. He shifted guiltily. “He’s _Crowley._ He’ll be fine.”

Dean wheezed in what was probably acknowledgement and went back to pacing.

“Maybe put down the gun?” Kevin suggested, weakly. Dean just kept pacing.

The door of the bunker opened. Kevin set the takeout container down and jumped off the counter.

His mother was standing in the doorway. Kevin flung himself at her, burying his face in her shoulder.

Behind him, he heard Dean sob, the thud of footsteps, and a collision. Kevin lifted his head from his mother’s shoulder in time to see Dean with his hands on either side of Crowley’s bruised face.

“Don’t-you-ever-do-that-again-you-sonuvabitch-you-scared-the-crap-out-of-me.” Dean gasped. “What the fuck happened to your face?”

“Mrs. Tran,” Crowley admitted, rather sheepishly.

Dean heaved a breath and stepped back. “Well, you deserved that.”

“Were you worried about me?” Crowley cooed. Dean scowled.

Kevin stopped listening to their bickering and held on tightly to his mother.

For the first time since he’d been struck by lightning and turned into a prophet, Kevin felt safe.

 

***** DEAN *****

 

“You care about me.”

“Kiss my ass, Crowley.”

“You _care._ About _me._ ”

“I will shoot you.”

“No you won’t. Because you _care._ ”

“One panic attack directly after losing my brother does not mean I care.”

“What about what you said?”

“It was a moment of weakness.”

“You put your hands on my face like I was a soldier returning from the Great War—”

“Crowley, shut the fuck up.”

“Not a chance, Squirrel.”

Dean huffed and took a sip of beer, ignoring Crowley’s snickering.

“Hey,” Kevin said. Dean startled, slopping beer down his chin.

“What did I say about sneaking up on me?”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t hear me.”

Dean wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What do you need, Kevin?”

“We need to have Sam’s funeral.”

Dean felt his heart drop into his stomach. “Way to kill the mood,” he croaked, biting his lip.

Then Kevin dropped the second bombshell. “I’m leaving. With my mom.”

Dean’s vision tilted and blurred. Someone’s hand closed around his, taking the beer bottle out of his hand.

“I want to be here for the funeral,” Kevin was saying, his voice muffled by a rush of static. “So that should be soon.”

Dean couldn’t breathe.

“I know you might not want to burn him, but we should at least bury him, so he’s not just—”

Once, more than a decade ago, Dean’s attention had lapsed while he was fighting (Sammy had fallen and Dean had seen blood on the Shifter’s blade, you couldn’t blame him for being distracted) and the other Shifter (since fucking when did they hunt in pairs, this was unfair) boxed Dean’s ears.

He’d gone down hard, gasping and dizzy, head spinning, helplessly crawling toward Sam to shield him with his body (with his life, if necessary), thinking it was over, until John had pumped the shifters full of buckshot and gotten them the hell out of dodge.

Dean’s ears hadn’t stopped ringing for hours. He’d never wanted to feel like that again, unwounded but helpless, unable to right himself.

But here he was again. Drowning in his own mind.

A dark mass stepped between Dean and Kevin. For a moment, he thought his vision was blacking out, but it’s Crowley. One arm reaching back, as if protecting Dean—

(Dean doesn’t need protecting, he _protects._ He protects Sam, especially, only now he’s failed.)

—the other hand on Kevin’s shoulder, companionable but slightly threatening.

“How about you bring this up again _later,_ ” Dean hears Crowley say through the shell-to-his-ear ocean static.

The dark blur that was Crowley turned around and knelt, resting his palms on Dean’s knees.

“Squirrel. Look at me.”

“He’s right,” Dean muttered, wondering why his voice was so thick. “I’ve put it off long enough.”

Crowley didn’t say anything. He just left his hands on Dean’s legs, warm and vaguely soothing. He tilted his head slightly, like he was listening for the source of that awful keening sound.

Dean reached up to touch his face, which felt curiously numb. His fingertips came away wet.

The keening turned into hiccuping, childish sobs. Dean realized belatedly that it was him.

Crowley shifted forward slightly. “Squirrel? You in there?”

Dean nodded. His head hurt. There was something in his throat and he couldn’t breathe.

“Squirrel. Dean. I know it hurts. Look at me.”

Dean lifted his head and met Crowley’s eyes.

“I’m not going to hug you, because your face is disgusting right now, but I’m going to wrap a blanket around you and get you some water. I hope that will do.”

Dean couldn’t think.

Crowley wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and pushed a bottle of water into his hand. Dean tried to thank him, but it came out strangled. Crowley patted his shoulder.

“I know,” Crowley murmured, so kindly that it caught Dean off guard, even through the haze of grief. “Really, I do.”

Dean leaned back into the couch cushions and waited it out. That was all he could do.

Crowley stayed with him, quiet and unobtrusive, sitting beside Dean on the couch while he fell apart.

When Dean’s sobs quieted down, Crowley started to speak.

“You don’t have to put yourself back together,” he told Dean, his voice soft, accent weaving in and out. “I know it feels necessary, but the truth is, you’re not going to be able to. Sam is gone, the demons are gone. Your world has, essentially, ended.”

Dean glared at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re not getting back to what you were. You’ll have to build yourself from the ground up. It’ll hurt, but you’ll get there. You will.”

Dean’s chest hurt. He turned to look at Crowley. “How do you know?”

“It’s what I did.”

 

***** DEAN *****

 

Sam’s funeral was a quiet, almost peaceful affair. They didn’t burn his body, because Dean couldn’t bear to. Kevin was there, and his mother, and Dean and Crowley, Charlie, and Cas, who finally made it to the bunker from where he had fallen, Graceless and human.

They were the last ones left. That was almost as sobering as putting Sam in the ground.

Almost.

Dean buried his brother. He dug the grave alone, despite everyone there volunteering to help. Maybe it was penance, or grief, or possessiveness, but he had to do it alone.

Above him, it was too quiet. Cas explained what had happened in heaven, why the angels fell, and said nothing more. Crowley was silent, one hand clasped over the fading track marks on his neck. Charlie wept quietly. Kevin and his mother stood clinging to each other, wordless.

Dean pushed up his sleeves and kept digging. His chest hurt, but he was used to that. It had hurt since Bobby died, since Jo and Ellen died. Since Sam died the first time at Cold Oak. Since John died. Since their mother burned.

Dean kept digging.

“That’s enough,” someone said, above him, Dean hauled himself out of the grave, using the shovel as a lever.

Sam’s body was wrapped and bound. It wasn’t Sam, not anymore. Just a corpse that had already started to smell of decay.

Not Sam.

Dean lifted the body into his arms and staggered back toward the grave, lowering himself in. He settled the body in the earth, kissed the cloth-covered forehead, and climbed back out.

It was still too quiet. Together, unspoken, the miniscule funeral party pushed the soil back into the grave, covering Sam’s body with earth.

There was dirt in the lines of Dean’s palms, under his fingernails.

(There was blood embedding itself into the skin of his hands, soaking into his nail beds and staining him with guilt.)

When it was over, Dean lay down in the freshly-turned soil of his brother’s grave. He didn’t cry—he’d cried so much since Sam had died. He was out of tears.

Charlie laid down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. Kevin lowered himself down on Dean’s other side, and Cas sat down by Dean’s head, his knees drawn up.

It was getting dark. Between the digging and the burying, it had taken most of the afternoon.

Crowley sat down in the grass a few steps away from the grave. He scratched absently at his neck, the eight track-marks that Sam had died for. He wasn’t crying either, but his eyes were glossed over, his expression drawn and twisted with regret.

The sun set. Dean watched the stars come out.

At some point, Crowley stood up and went inside.

Dean waited for the sky to break open and fall. Everything had ended, where was the apocalypse? Where were the locusts and the angels and the Rapture?

Dean’s chest hitched when he realized what he was thinking; they’d spent horrible months trying to _prevent_ the apocalypse, died and lived again for it, and here Dean was, hoping it would come.

Charlie, dozing off against his shoulder, mistook the strangled laugh for a sob, and took Dean’s hand. “It’ll be okay,” she murmured, and it was a lie, but Dean appreciated it nonetheless.

The stars spread out over their heads. Dean thought about heaven.

He hoped Sam was happy in Flagstaff with his dog, happy at someone else’s Thanksgiving, happy driving away to Stanford.

He hoped Sam was happy.

He hoped.

(Just before Dean fell asleep, he thought he heard Crowley saying “Moose?”)

 

***** CROWLEY *****

 

Crowley felt like he was watching the timer on a bomb tick down.

Dean fell asleep three hours after the funeral, and spent four hours asleep before he woke up, dressed and got ready as if he was going out on a hunt, then stood in the hallway in silent, stricken tears until Castiel snapped him out of it and hugged him tenderly.

The day after the funeral, Kevin and his mother left the bunker. Kevin and Dean hugged each other for long enough that Crowley wasn’t sure they’d ever let go. Then they did, and Kevin turned his back to leave. Crowley saw Dean crumple, then pull himself together before Kevin looked back over his shoulder.

Three days after the funeral, Charlie left, going back to her life. She kissed Dean’s cheek, and told him that it would be alright. Dean wept into her hair, and Crowley had to look away.

Five days after the funeral, Cas stopped talking entirely. He was struggling to get accustomed to human life, to living in the bunker, to Sam’s absence, to Crowley’s presence.

A week after the funeral, Dean woke up screaming after three hours of sleep and spent the rest of the day curled up on the chair in the library, crying into his knees and ignoring Castiel and Crowley’s attempts to talk to him.

Two weeks after the funeral, Dean broke a plate. He drew his gun and shouted a warning, backing into a corner and threatening to shoot Crowley when he came in to investigate.

Two and a half weeks after the funeral, Dean asked if Crowley was alright. Crowley didn’t know how to answer, so he settled for a shrug. “I’ve been busy worrying about you.”

There was an awkward sort of pause.

Dean laughed. It was the happiest sound Crowley had heard from him since… well. _Since._

“Apparently we’ve been worrying about each other.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Crowley asked, incredulous.

Dean gave him a look that very clearly said _duh._ “You mean, aside from the fact that you completely lack empathy one day and cry over Animal Planet the next—”

“That was once—”

“It was more than once and you know it. Let me finish. Other than that, and the random freakouts and the hell flashbacks—don’t look at me like that, we both know that’s what they are—and those little crying fits that you pretend that you can hide, and getting scared of your own shadow and the way you look at Cas, like he might hurt you, and—”

“—and you’re doing all the same things!” Crowley cut in, explosively. Dean flinched. So did Crowley.

Cas padded into the room. He was wearing his trenchcoat over a black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He didn’t speak, predictably, just glanced between them and tilted his head.

“I’m grieving. That’s different.”

“And I’m not?” Crowley snapped. His eyes were watering, damn it. Whose bright idea was anger bringing tears? Humiliating.

“Are we even talking about the same thing?”

Crowley scowled, staring slightly to the left of Dean’s head. “I’m worried about you, and apparently that’s wrong.”

“You’re not even taking care of yourself!”

Crowley laughed, loud and ugly. “Why should that concern you?”

“I can’t lose you too!”

They were both shouting, now. Crowley was furious for a reason he couldn’t fathom. He paused to catch his breath and laughed again, this time bordering on hysteria.

“Why are we angry at each other?”

“You’re both incredibly upset about events beyond your control, and unable to process the emotion without defying your human self-preservation instincts, so you are venting the excess emotion in the most convenient way, which happens to be anger,” Cas said, all in one breath.

Crowley looked at Castiel. “You’re talking again?”

Castiel looked away. “Sorry.”

Dean made a sound that might have been a laugh if he hadn’t hiccuped in the middle. “Cas. Buddy. Don’t be _sorry._ ”

Crowley scratched his neck self-consciously. “Personally, I think we’re angry because we both feel like we’re more entitled to pain and lack of functionality than the other person, and regret that who we’re rooming with isn’t someone that we miss—”

That was as far as he got before his knees buckled. Dean darted to his side and caught him, steadying him until he got his balance back.

Crowley sobbed once and wrapped his arms around his head. Dean eased him to the ground and sat down beside him as he started to cry.

“Who do you wish was here?” Castiel asked, with his customary but not entirely unwanted lack of tact.

Crowley shrugged, wiping his face on his sleeve. “Bobby Singer.”

Dean scoffed, incredulous. “Bobby?”

“Bobby.” Crowley repeated, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “We had… something. For a bit. Topside, and then… in Hell.”

“That explains quite a bit,” Cas said, settling beside them, legs draped awkwardly, knees slightly bent.

Dean and Crowley both glanced at him. “Explains what?”

Crowley laughed when they spoke at the same time, but Dean looked like he might cry.

“Explains why Crowley acted so rashly after the second trial,” Cas said.

“I did not,” Crowley retorted.

“You are usually much less careless in your attempts to take control of events. Your brashness allowed Sam and Dean to defeat and capture you.”

Crowley started laughing, which was a mistake, because he ended up crying all over again, and it was all very unpleasant.

Maybe the worst part was that Dean was there. Not just _there,_ physically, but _there-_ there. Kind. Resting one hand on Crowley’s shoulder, not even laughing as Crowley crumbled.

“We were friends,” Crowley admitted, eventually. “And more than that. There was a spark. Synergy.”

He expected Dean to laugh at him. He didn’t.

“We… there was something. Briefly.” Crowley tried to explain.

“You loved him,” Castiel said, simply. “At a time when you thought you could no longer love anyone.”

Crowley nodded, almost choking on the bittersweet truth of it.

“And you killed my dog,” he said, miserably, wiping his nose. Humans were so _damp._

Dean just shrugged. “I’m not going to apologize.”

Crowley nodded, miserable and bitter. “Greater good, and all that. Kill a Hellhound, free a soul from Hell, ruin the life and livelihood of a demon… all in a day’s work.”

“So why are you still here?” Dean asked.

“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m human. I have a bloody conscience now.”

“You could ignore it,” Dean shrugged.

“You could kill yourself,” Crowley retorted, more harshly than he meant to. “But you won’t, and I won’t.”

“Out of a sense of responsibility toward Sam’s memory.” Cas said, his voice too quiet. “That’s why I’m still here.”

Self-consciously, they all went quiet.

“What do we do now?” Dean’s voice was thick. “Do we have to worry about the angels?”

“The angels are scattered,” Castiel murmured. “I doubt they will become a problem for quite some time.”

“Awesome,” Dean muttered. “So _what do I do?_ ”

Crowley closed his eyes tightly. “Same thing we’re all doing. Start from scratch.”

 

***** CASTIEL *****

 

Cas woke up when Dean’s alarm went off in the room two doors down from his. He didn’t have the heightened senses of an angel anymore, but his vessel-turned-body’s hearing was good enough that if he focused, he could pick up almost as much.

He listened quietly while Dean got up, moved around the room getting ready, and spoke, his words inaudible. Cas didn’t know if he was speaking to the photographs on his desk, or to Sam, or perhaps to Crowley.

Cas knew that Dean didn’t speak to God. He was almost certain he was the only one who still did.

Only one set of footsteps passed Cas’ door. Dean wasn’t speaking to Crowley, then. Crowley must be in the kitchen, Cas decided. He could smell coffee.

Cas stayed in bed until his bladder (the most bewildering and obnoxious of his human functions) forced him to attend to it.

It had been weeks since Cas had worn anything but the same three pairs of sweatpants and four t-shirts, both in a variety of neutral colors. They were much more comfortable than his—Jimmy Novak’s—suit and tie, but Cas missed feeling somewhat professional.

He still wore the coat. It was as much a comfort object as an item of clothing.

Crowley was making pancakes when Cas shuffled out into the kitchen. Dean was sitting on the counter, nursing a mug of coffee. His feet were bare, but he was otherwise dressed, wearing jeans and a flannel, and his heavy outer jacket.

Cas wondered if he was cold, or if Dean’s jacket served the same purpose as Cas’.

“Hey,” Dean mumbled, passing him a mug of coffee and a plate of pancakes.

Cas watched Crowley as he ate. The ex-demon’s suit had all but fallen to bits after he went to retrieve Mrs. Tran, so he wore Sam’s clothes, stretched slightly over his ample stomach, but loose in the shoulders. Like Cas, he only wore sweatpants.

Crowley was graceful, in a stubborn sort of way. He flipped pancakes as though he’d never had to learn, born dexterous and competent. Cas wasn’t fooled. He saw the way Crowley’s hands shook and his feet shifted, desperate to prove his worth.

Dean ate with none of his former exuberance, taking what Crowley gave him and asking for no more.

It was a somber breakfast, but it was comfortable, in a way.

They drifted apart after that. Dean to the library or the weapons room, to take things apart and put them back together (as if that could teach him how to do it to himself). Cas down to the basement, to slowly and methodically familiarize himself with the Men of Letters’ records. Crowley to wherever he went these days.

Cas was up to the early 1800s as far as records go. He sat cross-legged on the cement floor, half-empty coffee mug beside him, pulling the box that he marked with a post-it note the night before off the shelf and starting to go through the files.

Dean brought him lunch by the time Cas reached 1815. It was a sandwich. Peanut butter and grape jelly (not jam) on white bread (the kind without the seeds). Dean had asked, with that tilt in his voice that meant he wasn’t being entirely serious, if Cas wanted the crusts cut off. He rather liked the variety of texture, as long as it was predictable.

Cas reached up and caught Dean’s hand, tangling their fingers together briefly. Dean’s chest hitched with one of those half-breaths that Cas could never identify, and then he slipped away, back upstairs.

Crowley sulked downstairs when Cas was halfway through 1817. He nudged Cas out of the way with his foot, like someone pushing a cat out of the way, and opened the not-really-secret door to the dungeon.

Cas tilted his head to listen. The dungeon walls were vaguely soundproof, so Crowley’s inarticulate shouting was audible but unclear.

There was a particularly high-pitched scream. Cas didn’t flinch. This happened every few days; Crowley just broke. After the third time, Dean suggested that Crowley make a mess of the dungeon rather than the library, and it became the norm.

Cas read. Crowley screamed. Dean took weapons apart and put them back together, organized the library the way he liked it, rather than the way Sam did. 

Crowley stopped screaming. Cas could hear his heaving breaths through the door. Above their heads, books thudded as Dean moved them around.

The world had ended when Sam died, for all of them, for different reasons.

But here they were, rebuilding.

 

***** EPILOGUE *****

 

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t perfect.

Sam was gone, and Dean suffered—would always suffer—without the brother that had become as much a part of him as his own flesh and blood.

Castiel and Crowley’s newly-human minds struggled to bear the weight of their pasts. They fought every day, not to mend what had been broken—that was beyond repair—but to build anew.

It wasn’t pretty, or perfect. But it was what they had, along with each other.

They stayed alive. For Sam, for their guilty consciences, for one another. They made the bunker, with all its empty space, a home.


End file.
